The Unkindest Cut
by AstraGalactic
Summary: Because for all the horrors of a war that had lasted eons, and all the atrocities and betrayals, this was in many ways the cruelest. [Transformers AOE verse]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: At end.

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"My apologies, Colonel. Due to the classification level of this area, we need a moment to debrief you in private and for you to sign a few nondisclosures before you can proceed."

Within the confines of his Alt, Lennox's irritated sigh echoes, and even without his human counterpart saying anything, Optimus is reminded of one of the Colonel's numerous rants which usually revolved around asking why the government had to be so damn _inefficient _compared with his unit.

Despite that, the leader of the human half of their alliance – because the political types may give orders as they wish, but it is Lennox who commands loyalty in the field – doesn't say anything to the effect of voicing his frustrations that are only exacerbated by his indignation at the thought of NEST being absorbed by Cemetery Wind – he'd raged when they told him he was going to be transferred and not permitted knowledge of where the Autobots were going and had only been _somewhat_ mollified when they at last sent back a memo transferring him along with the Autobots - and calmly steps out of Optimus's cab, commenting with only a hint of irritated resignation in his tone as he is handed a comparatively thick folder to peruse:

"Go on ahead, Big Buddha. _Obviously_ this is gonna take a while."

Smiling internally at the call sign NEST had lovingly bestowed upon him, because as strange as the concept of nicknames was on their world, he does understand the significance to humans, the Prime hesitates for only a moment before rolling forward down the designated lane that leads up to the hangar up ahead, paying only superficial attention to the numerous active Terrestrial weapons systems all around him, because it certainly isn't new, and thinking that if the operatives of Cemetery Wind prove as accepting, brave and loyal as the soldiers of NEST had, his Autobots will like it here, secluded enough, as this new base is, for them to roam but without the humidity of Diego Garcia that many had never entirely become accustomed to.

He cannot help the echo of pain that lances through his Spark, remembering one of his oldest and dearest friends, now lost to him, who had not hesitated to repeatedly make his opinion heard about 'living in the middle of a slagging ocean', and even though he knows he should be rejoicing in this peace they have fought so long and hard for, the ever present ache within him sings of another truth, sings of the lost friends and comrades and future, and a price far too high.

It's the sudden explosion of pain setting his sensory network alight that rips him out of his reverie, mortar shells and sabot rounds tearing through him, everything humans have learned from fighting alongside his own now put to devastating effect, and at some level he fears that he already knows what this is, but he forces his battle protocols offline, transforming to speak to his attackers face-to-face, even knowing it makes him more vulnerable, because they know what are the vital points in this form.

"What are you doing? We are allies!" he says, forcing back the pain and horror to layer his tone with harmonics of reassurance, keeping his weapons inert, not just for a display of his intentions but because he has sworn never to harm the organic inhabitants of this planet, but the only response is a renewed attack, their ordinance hitting ever closer to vital parts of his anatomy that are laid bare by his being in a form which is more familiar to them, and still he doesn't fight back, can't find it in his Spark to harm, much less kill them, even as they cut off his attempt at fleeing by virtue of their presence alone, even as they corner him between a wall and their barrage of unrelenting fire in what feels like the "Death by a Thousand Cuts" that he's heard of once being practiced on this planet.

Pain that rivals his worst battle injuries wreathes him and his Energon is running freely onto the pavement below, and still he tries to reason with them, to plead with them if only for an answer since mercy seems too much to ask for:

"Why are you doing this? Why? How have I wronged you?"

And this time he gets his answer, cold hate he can barely comprehend delivered during a momentary cessation in the barrage of fire because likely now they deem him too weak to escape – probably they are right – as if his Autobots had ever willingly put humans at risk, as if they hadn't sacrificed _everything_ to protect the life on this planet, as if they had asked to be exiled, giving the Decepticons the opportunity they needed to take power, and though he knows by now that no reason can counter this kind of blind hatred, he still intends to try, fighting with words those he cannot bear to raise his weapons against, and then suddenly beyond his expectations even now, the cold chasm of betrayal opens deeper, swallowing him into its icy depths of horrified anguish, ripping apart his desire to end this peacefully as irrevocably as the human flesh he hears being torn by bullets.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Lennox's voice filled with every nuance of the horrified betrayal that Optimus was feeling and the rage he hadn't let himself build up, and then a burst of automatic gunfire.

'_No, not him too!'_ is all Optimus can think, devastation replacing the calm he'd fought so hard to hold to as it feels like he's reliving the worst day of his life all over again, and rage follows soon after as his audio receptors pick up the quiet choking sound that's too weak for a human to hear but inescapable all the same.

There is the click of another cartridge being slid in place, infrared scanners showing clearly the automatic weapon being pointed again at the barely alive _fragile_ form choking on his blood on the floor, and something inside the Prime shatters.

"I'm going to kill you!" he roars, trembling with rage, throwing himself in the direction of Lennox's location, not caring anymore who is in the way of his pedefalls, tearing the roof off the small structure and picking up his human friend in the same movement, a hailstorm of bullets ricocheting off his fingers, and he has saved Lennox from that, but it's too late, he knows.

Too late, always too late, he laments, as another precious shard of what little he has left to live for is ripped away.

Lennox is dying, and still Optimus refuses to surrender him to that fate so easily, so he parts his chest-plates, overriding the emergency locks that have engaged to protect his Spark, tucking him into the crevice that will fill out into the interior of his Alt form, and transforms, ramming straight through the line of armored vehicles firing at him with no care for the defensibility of their own positions, counting as it were, on his disinclination to harming them.

Moments ago, the Prime would have died before committing such an act, in self-defense though it would have been, but now he barely feels the collision, can feel nothing beyond the warmth of organic blood seeping into his systems, and the horrifying sickness that accompanies it - not because of what the viscous carmine is but because of the fading life it represents.

He can hear nothing - not even the explosions tearing through his frame, because he cannot maneuver as fast as normal with so fragile a being grievously wounded inside him - beyond the ever weakening ventilations and the bubbling of blood that never should be mixed with that sound.

"We will be at a hospital soon, Will. Fight." he rumbles soothingly, meaning every word as instead of trying to throw off his pursuers, he has set course for the nearest human medical facility, however futile he also know it is all the same, ignoring the ordinance tearing into him now that he cannot swerve to evade with such densely populated structures ahead, Spark aching as he uses a designation for the human that only Ironhide had ever used, but seems strangely appropriate now.

Weakly coughing up blood, Lennox manages a bitter smile, choking out slurred words between ever more ragged weak gasps:

"Don't, Prime. No cover, you can't … maneuver … no point."

Still doggedly staying on course, Optimus doesn't reply at first, cannot reply even if there were words, beneath the crushing weight of grief and reminders that are again too strong, beneath the aching familiarity, because here Will is, trying to protect him, trying to fill somehow the aching void that Ironhide's murder had torn in both their lives.

"You are my _friend_" he replies at last, soft raw words breaking down into a guttural wordless keen that echoes the pain ripping though his Spark as the human's heart gives one final struggle and stills – three blocks from the hospital, and he's late, too late – staving off the sudden feeling of any desire to survive draining out of him in favor of forcing himself to traverse those final blocks and lay Will's body before the hospital – gently, as if it matters now, reverently because he was the one human Optimus could truly trust in the end, and now he's dead for it - because despite the evacuation that's in progress, there are still medical staff here, and there is no saving him but he deserves a proper funeral at least.

First Ironhide and now Will. First Sentinel's betrayal and now the humans', and

for the first time in his long life, Optimus cannot find in him the strength to _want _to go on, cannot find the strength to hope, kneeling there before the hospital with his optics raised to the black sky, keening a litany that is their species' oldest, purest, expression of grief.

He forces himself to move once more when the next piece of ordnance that tears through him, breaching his Spark-chamber, is Cybertronian, spurred to his pedes by duty as he recognizes a Decepticon faction ID and Spark-signature, Lockdown – though apparently now the highest bidder is now Cemetery Wind instead of an offlined Megatron – because the Autobots have to be warned, and ignoring the part of him that wants to stay and fight to the bitter end, knowing he will die and not caring because it means that this terrible grief will end and he will know peace, the Prime forces himself to unsteady pedes, fleeing, hoping the act that runs against everything in his nature will buy him enough time to warn his Autobots about the danger they face.

A wreck of a terrestrial truck passes him by on one of the back roads, and he'd been looking for a new form to trans-scan, but never before this would he have dreamed of taking a form so obviously ready for the scrap-heap, except that right now it looks exactly how he feels, _broken beyond repair_ – it's one betrayal too many and he can't heal from this, he knows - and so he lets the beams of his scanner wash over it, mimicking the wretched vehicle perfectly, and then drives till he can find some kind of cover within a long abandoned human building, because at least there will be no innocents caught in the crossfire when they find him here.

On the verge of stasis-lock, the Prime fights to route all remaining power to his comms, broadcasting with everything left in him a final warning, ignoring the Energon pooling beneath him and the blinding agony of his Spark flickering within him, tenuously held in life by the Matrix but only barely so, ignoring the pings on his sensor net that tell him Cemetery Wind is close and so is Lockdown, and the only reason he hasn't been found yet is because his Spark-signature is as weak is it is.

"Calling all Autobots. We are under targeted attack! Cease all contact with humans!"

It is this message he broadcasts - covering the devastation with a brittle plating of rage, because he has to be strong for them and its better that they hear his fury than how utterly _defeated _he feels - repeating endlessly as long as he has the energy to do so, or until they find him.

He'll fight, when that happens. He'll _kill _them for murdering another of the few _friends _he had left, a friend whose lifeblood is still drying on Optimus's chassis, for taking Will from his family, for leaving little Annabelle an orphan and Sarah a widow, even knowing it's a fight he's fated to loose – but till that time, it is this service to his final duty which is all he has left in him to give, a warning to send his Autobots into hiding, as much to protect them from these treacherous humans as to protect those few humans they can perhaps still treasure as friends, from the certain death any involvement will bring, and pushing the last of his energy into sending this warning, he succumbs to the cold blackness of stasis.

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A/N: _I hate myself for writing this. I like to think that our faithful friends from before AOE stayed alive and were just cut off from even knowing about the Autobots, probably for their own protection, but part of me kept thinking that the guy who kicked the liaison off a plane in midair wouldn't just take that laying down, and then at the Yeager residence, Optimus seemed too certain for comfort that Cemetery Wind would use lethal force on humans too, and right down the lane between devastated and murderously enraged, so this plot bunny was born. Meant to be a couple one-shots with nothing but tragedy in sight, though for anyone who can endure the wait, when I have a working computer again, I have plans for a lengthy Transformers fic which … well, I like happier endings and it really pisses me off when we get so many great characters killed off._


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: This part of the fic was inspired by a re-reading of "Descanso" by eyemyohmy on AO3, an excellently written fic dealing with the aftermath of DOTM for Ratchet, which will put this in more perspective if read first though this can stand alone. Credit where credit's due though. This was inspired by that fic, paired with the saddest moment in AOE, one line directly references that fic, and Descanso is beautifully written, therefore worth a read.

(Anything else I have to say is after the end.)

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He'd mourned for Ironhide, oh, how he'd mourned, and he'd prayed to everything he'd long since stopped having the strength to believe in, and he'd fought till all hope was gone and there was nothing left in him with which to fight, searching for a way to bring back his ornery friend (and so much more) - incessantly pestering even Drift in hopes that his friendship with Wing, a mech who'd been all but obsessed with the old tales, could have given him some insight into the working of the Matrix, because Ironhide's Spark had been destroyed too, nothing left of it in the tiny pile of rusty dust and slivers of disintegrated metal that were his mortal remains, and what the Matrix had done for that traitorous glitch it could not do for their pillar of loyal strength.

Apparently even the Matrix had limitations. It needed more than what was left to work with, and every single last drop of hope he had dredges up from the depths of his weary Spark, every endless orn spent without recharge, and everything … everything they tried – _they_, because it had broken something in their Prime, too, they all knew it – always ended in vain.

He'd fought and tried long beyond the point that it made sense to, long beyond the point that it stopped being for Prime, stopped being for the Autobots, and was just selfishly for himself – he knew it every time he felt the ache of that scar threaded through his Spark where their bond had been, was reminded each time he withdrew from storage in his own frame that last fragment left of Ironhide's armor, untouched by the rust but still so cold and still in counterpoint to a mech who'd been so forcefully alive – up until the day that he had to stop running from the cruel reality of things and say goodbye.

He remembers that moment now, looking up at the executioner's device that Lockdown's arm has transformed into, staring death in the face and unable to run with his body ripped to shreds by these humans.

He remembers the day he'd realized he needed to let go, to let go of the anger and the raging pain, to let of the futile hopes that killed him inside each time they were crushed, _to say goodbye_ to someone who'd held safe a piece of his soul through all those bleak vorns, and laying to rest that sliver of armor he'd held for so long, watching the crimson sunset bloom across the sky in an exceptional display only made bitter by the lack of a certain presence by his side to watch it – because for all Ironhide's vehement cursing about humidity, he could appreciate a display like this for Ratchet's sake – he'd asked then, as if Ironhide could still hear him, if perchance he could see the sunsets of many planets from the afterlife, that he watch Earth's a little more closely.

Right now, he hopes that Ironhide hadn't heard him, and remembering the stubborn black mech cut down so cruelly by Sentinel, he never thought that he could consider Ironhide lucky – lucky not to see this, lucky not to see Lennox cut down too similarly and their Prime lost to them, lucky that everything Ratchet had tried and hoped for to bring him back had failed utterly – and yet here he is.

Their Weapons Specialist would have not gone down easily were he here, especially not after what happened to Lennox – it had been covered up as a drive-by shooting, but they all knew the truth – and with their Prime ambushed by these so called allies and MIA, but eventually he'd have fallen all the same, because it wasn't in his nature to hide and wait, and their enemy hunts them with a brutality reserved only for Decepticons, a brutality they cannot match - _will not_ match, unwilling as they are to trap innocents in the crossfire.

Better then, perhaps, that he not have to see this cruel _betrayal_ too.

Had he known where Optimus is, he'd still not divulge that information, but even as Lockdown's Spark-extractor rips through his armor, even as his broken body spasms in the worst physical agony he's known as his Spark-chamber shatters, he can't seem to bring himself to care about the death staring him in the optics.

He hurts too much, and it isn't the pain of his ravaged frame that extinguishes the last of any will to live - he's healed before from that – but rather the searing agony deep within his Spark of his very essence splintering and his last hopes dying, the slow internal death that one betrayal, Sentinel's, had began and another equally heinous is finishing.

Ratchet wasn't seeking death, just laying low and searching for his lost comrades, but a little more of him had died inside with each one he realized was lost to them – a little more with each pattern of dried Energon and charred infrastructure that was the only testament left of each one he couldn't save – and he's tired, _so tired_.

Tired of being hunted, tired of being _alone_, because everyone he cared for most is gone from him now, tired of having no place left to call home.

Cybertron is lost to them, and any thoughts he might have ever had of calling _this_ planet home were extinguished the moment this backstabbing species they'd sacrificed _everything_ for, turned on them.

It might be the twisted bounty hunter who is ripping out his Spark, but in every way that matters, the humans already _have_.

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A/N (continued):

A million thanks to those of you who have reviewed/faved/followed. A friend is posting this for me, so I'll try to thank you personally if my cellphone cooperates, but if you don't hear from me or don't have an account, you have my deepest gratitude.

To iiii, my lengthier fic will eventually veer into the storyline of AOE, but with changes, and yes ... Well, let's just say, Will and Ironhide are my favorite human and Bot respectively, so you can imagine I want them around ;-) It'll be a while though, but it will happen.


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